


breeding violets out of the dead land

by brideshead_regurgitated



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Castiel is Saved from the Empty (Supernatural), Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, post 15.19, toddler!Jack (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 14:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30023283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brideshead_regurgitated/pseuds/brideshead_regurgitated
Summary: "I won’t hurt you,” adds Dean.Whether Dead is talking about the methodical and precise movements with which he’s combing Cas's hair or in wider terms, Cas cannot tell. Either way, Dean’s voice sounds as vulnerable and open as it gets, perhaps the epitome of it, and Cas instinctively believes him.“I know. I trust you,” Cas whispers back.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 48





	breeding violets out of the dead land

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd.

They say that April is the cruellest month: The promise of renewal is looked down on, altered so deeply that disillusionment taints reality and one barren season is supposed to follow another into an endless cycle of desperation and despair, transforming the world into a desolate wasteland lacking all things good. It’s a chaotic universe that hardly ever seems to care about the fate of its inhabitants, indifferent and unbothered, leaving coarse patterns free to be imposed and no retribution to be paid after such prompt catastrophes.

It's a dark and stormy night, but the world seems softer and more welcoming. Even the rain feels more like a harbinger of renewal rather than one of death and destruction. It is April, not so much with its sweet showers that filter through the ground and wet the burgeoning flowers and leaves, but with something more violent and primordial - nature in all its power, all motion and dynamicity. It’s torrential rain that started in the early afternoon as nothing but a drizzle, as announced by the weather forecast for days. Cold and harsh, with thunder rolling and rambling, getting louder and louder and coming closer - the whole world trembling. Howling wind that breaks the silence, blowing through the streets and making the window blinds clatter and all the branches rattle and rustle, move as the sooty buds appear more vulnerable and fragile. Alive and threatening, unsparing with its never-ending movement and noise of nature at its best. Frightening and Romantic, awe-inspiring and sublime, capable of inspiring greatness as well as belittlement - mocking people, putting them back in their place: immense power and such small and weak animals.

At first, there’s nothing but mud and trees, the whole world seems to be made of them. A dreary and watery microcosm, distorted by the pounding rain that impairs his vision. Familiar and confusing at once, there is a distant memory of this place, an immediate recollection: Something about it feels like home or is at least distinct enough to have left an impression - months, if not years ago. A car drive and rock music blasting through the speakers, the summer air coming in through the open windows carrying the sweet smell of perennial violets, and a conversation with no real topic to keep track of. A feeling of lightness in his chest, the most treasured feeling of all. Smiles. Nay, perhaps, grins revealing teeth and gums. Words not spoken - out of fear - holding back, but there nonetheless: this truth, so safely kept, that always made him feel raw and exposed, vulnerable, and the awareness, no matter how remote, that there was something, sometimes - gazes held longer than necessary, and lingering touches lasting one moment longer. A well-kept secret, intimidating and fear-inspiring, adding up the surprising and disgusting enormity of his own desire. 

Darkness, it seems, is the universe. Like the Empty, cold and unforgiving, cruel. He doesn’t remember much of his time there, though he remembers the agony in the sorry weeks and months, the regret of having spoken about his feelings at such an inappropriate time, of not having left enough space for an answer, an admission, mutual happiness and ephemeral bliss ready to slip through his fingers, out of reach, still enough to keep him company, warm, safe inside his head by clinging onto it and leave no space for doubts. But standing there, with his heart beating hard in his chest, tears in his eyes, and realization settling in the room, Death pounding the door, each knock echoing through the air, it seemed like the only possible option. A selfless sacrifice in the name of love, a direct continuation of his usual wish and the readiness to die for it like a hind waiting to be mated by a lion. The memories come quickly, neatly, in all their details and so come the tears, prickling in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks, mingling with rain.

One step after the other, carefully. The road is slippery and his shoes sink into the mud, the earth under his feet squishing and shifting under his weight. His clothes are drenched and uncomfortably cling to his skin, the trench coat once tan is now covered in mud - a thick and heavy layer of it, almost black, stinky. If anything, it matches the encrusted surfaces of steps, pavements, uneven and ruined roads, and all those Wellington boots left drying off in backyards and front porches. Like part of the scenery, deeply belonging to a place that likes him as much as he likes him. A welcoming home, receiving him with no pomp or ceremonies, but with open arms. It suits an ancient being with little grace left, almost fully human. A lonely traveller headed home as well as an ominous figure met by empty roads. There are no lights burning behind any of the windows, like beacons of hope leading the way; no cars driving down the flooded roads with their tires splashing the water of the puddles back onto the pavement; no couples on late evening walks, making up their minds as to whether part ways or continue their evening - whatever decision, he is sure, is preceded by a kiss and the two options remain perfectly balanced and equally possible for a little while longer; no group of friends either, laughing and joking, occasionally pushing each other around as they share well-known anecdotes about their schooldays, a time reminisced with nostalgia and disillusionment. 

Rain and silence and none of the familiar landmarks illuminated by the lampposts at both sides of the roads. He simply travels the distance out of instinct - straight on and then left, left, right. Sooner or later he’ll reach his destination and then the hardest part will come later on, soon after, the one that will inevitably leave him out of his depths. Truth is simple, a series of facts pronounced matter-of-factly with feeling and conviction, with trembling voice and heartbreak. It’s partly objective, based on observation and recognition - looking even as the other has their head turned around, looking away. It’s up close and personal, verging on irrelevance. Apologies are different, slippery, difficult when a mere shift of stress can transform entire sentences into a question or an accusation. They have to be acknowledged and accepted, selfishness has to be taken into consideration, and may widen the distance more than they close it. 

Reluctantly plodding the ground, the distant past clearer than the immediate one. Years that are long gone come back in flashes and echoes, glimpses of a life that finally feels like his own, but the last moments in the Empty feel like a bad dream. He remembers almost none of it, he remembers feeling cold and being half asleep and eternally tired with no motivation to even think about going back - a pestering disappointment once more. An all but peaceful sleep and then Dean’s voice, distant and dreamlike, calling his name. A voice from another world. It sounded like a prayer, lacking the usual perception of longing, a foreign sound distorted by either love or grief, perhaps even anger and rage. So similar to a myth or an old-wives tale narrated in front of the fireplace, transmitted from one generation to the other, offering the means of exploring secret dreams and deepest anxieties. He remembers the feeling of Dean’s hand in his, so real, his palm warm and sweaty and callous. The hand of a soldier, capable of violence and tenderness alike. He cannot tell what was real and what wasn’t. Not anymore.

Angrily, he wipes his hair back. Anger at the universe and at himself, for being pathetic and weak and ever so alone - hurriedly walking down the street. It’s useless, now, to cry over spilt milk: what’s done is done and the past is nothing but a foreign country where things are done differently. It’s untouchable and there is no way to go back and re-enter the moment, change its very nature and turn events upside down. It would have happened, one day, one way or the other: too stand so close to the fire for years without getting burned completely impossible. It could never have lasted. If not with Dean, then any moment spent with Jack - too risky, one day he would have let his guard down. Unexpectedly. Without fully realizing it. 

He kicks a pebble that bounces off the pavement and onto the street with all the force he can muster and falls down, slipping, landing on his hands - the skin burns after it scratches against the concrete. 

“Fuck you,” he says, the knot in his throat getting tighter. “I just want to be home.”

Home in the bunker or anywhere with Jack. Possibly with Dean too. And life resuming at last.

So here he is, sitting on the ground when he could be anywhere else instead - dry clothes, the worst behind him and the future in front of him, at hand’s reach along with happiness, true happiness that may last longer than the last time, and an ending, not necessarily a happy one. Then again, is there such a thing? Will anyone be truly happy? Isn’t the very essence of life void of definite endings and true happiness, the kind one always ends up reading about? Isn’t it enough to aspire for the next best thing and mere contentment for it is impossible for anything else to remain as they are for the rest of time?

A whole new life! The mere idea feels like a reassuring promise. In the infinite time that creates this limbo of not knowing, this purgatory that has him plodding the ground as if atoning for his sins, as comforting as it is, he finds solace and allows it to last a little longer by slowing down, walking with smaller strides. Nothing will change, and the time to be remains balanced on a sensible fulcrum: it’s a realm made of possibilities, it’s the realm of the conjunctive. Any action after the arrival at the bunker will inevitably spoil the delicate moment. Two possibilities then, equally frightening: one, a life of unabridged and unforgotten memories fuelling the heartbreak; two, easily lean back and find the courage to leap feet first into the unknown, no longer a coward, being brave one day after the other for the rest of time.

Somewhere, frozen in time, there is a version of them - laughing, fooling around, in amicable silence. It’s not impossible. A memory of times gone by, but not impossible. All there is, perhaps, but tangent and heart-warming: they had it once, why not go back to it? Why remain apart with their histories and fears standing between them? Unable to step over the inanities and reach for a larger thought: you’re my best friend in the world. I love you. You saved me. He clings to those words, letting them roll on his tongue, imagining speaking them out loud, each syllable neatly articulated and climaxing on every pronoun. Predictable and hilarious, the whole situation calls for a laugh that he cannot quite muster - it remains stuck in his throat. After all these years, it’s the final moments as he walks down the gravel road that leads to the bunker, which appears as the most uncertain times of their mutual acquaintance. 

Castiel quickens his pace only to slow it down again just as quickly, dragging his feet, the gravel shifts under the soles of his shoes. It’s an endless journey at the eleventh hour, at a pivotal moment of time: all kinds of futures are possible and all of them but one are bound to disappear as soon as words are spoken and actions are done, shaping history. It weighs on him, like a sword hanging above his neck, and the feeling of safety that comes from the lack of impending confrontations, the lack of apologies, the lack of explanations. Here and now, alone on a desert road, there are no people with their complexity and their feelings and everything remains unchanged. He missed an entire year out of their lives, more or less, what if it is too much? What if life went on without him and now there’s no hole in his shape waiting to be filled? After all, time monomaniacally forbids second chances and this might as well turn out to be another cruel twist of fate. 

Imposing and industrial, towering itself against the black sky. Lighting explodes and the outline of the building is revealed in all its greatness, dark against sudden white light. It’s a safe place or the next best thing, the result of years and years of work - part of him always found it impressive, almost like home were it not that after years there he still feels like he doesn’t really belong. Carefully, watching his steps, he goes down a couple of stairs to the entrance, the familiar black door surrounded by concrete and red bricks. 

He lingers, uncertain of what to do and filled with indecisiveness. His heart pounds in his chest and cold water runs down his back, if anything there will be Jack and a hot shower, a clean and dry set of clothes. If things go well, if there is some benevolent force in this chaotic universe, there will be Dean too and they’ll be friends, mature enough to ignore what passed between them, mature enough to move on. 

There’s an intercom now, small, close to the door. It’s stupid when the whole point is anonymity, but useful if they did indeed manage to transform the bunker into a meeting point for hunters: people coming and going and the whole place alive and filled as it was destined to be. Stupid it may be, too shiny and new to look forgotten, but serving the purpose and he presses it without over thinking the simple gesture too much.

“It’s Castiel... Cas. It's Cas,” he says. “I’m a friend of the Winchesters.”

“Cas?” The voice, oozing bewilderment, is unmistakably Dean’s.

“Dean?”

“Yeah. Wait, I’ll just… Give me a moment, will you?”

And then there’s silence. 

He imagines the sound of steps down the corridor or merely up the metal stairs, Dean’s hand on the handrail as he quickly runs up. His hand on the doorknob or perhaps turning the keys in the keyhole first. It’s different, he doesn’t dare think about how much he didn’t witness.

Time passes, slowly. Seconds turn into minutes that stretch themselves to infinity and beyond as if they lasted a lifetime. It’s the kind of situation, he believes, that allows second chances to happen: frozen, everything standing still. Even the rain appears distant, easy to forget, no longer of import. Inch by inch, the door opens with a metallic creaking, revealing Dean at last. 

“Cas?” he asks, his voice soft. “Is that really you?”

Castiel nods. “I’m back.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He pauses, studying his friend. He looks different, softer, kinder, less tired. Longer hair and a beard. Still beautiful, still Dean. “Good things do happen.”

“Not to us, they don’t.”

“Aren’t you going to make sure that it’s me?”

“No, I trust you. We were expecting… I… _I_ was expecting you. And Jack too.” He sniffles. “Bold to assume this place ain’t warded for these things. You look terrible, Cas.”

“It’s the mud, isn’t it? I swear that when I left the Empty, I was spotless.”

It’s too much to take in. They stand there looking at each other, warily. There has to be something affectionate to say, he thinks, something that could potentially start a conversation about their moment in the bunker right before he was taken. Small talk could do too, serve the purpose, break the ice, reveal that they had yet to reach their limits and exhaust all tension and possibilities. He considers taking Dean’s hand, but doesn’t - the risk of showing himself exaggeratedly vulnerable too high. They’ve been through it once already, years ago, he shan’t expose himself as easily and as quickly. Not this time. Too many memories to forget, even the good ones.

“I prayed for you,” says Dean. “Every night.”

“I figured.” He pauses. “You saved me, Dean.”

“You came back. Back to _me._ Back to us. This. _Me._ ”

Flesh and bones, both of them. Real. The habit of separation is cumbersome, leaving them at loss with each other, difficult to discard. Love, perhaps, buried beyond their reach.

“I need to say something, Cas. I’ve got to ask.”

“Go on then.”

“Can I… Once and then we may never mention it again. Whatever. I just…” 

Dean doesn’t finish his sentence, he merely steps forward, slowly, stretching out his hands and cupping Cas’s cheeks, thumbs caressing his skin. Then, suddenly, with a hint of ludicrousness, he places lips on Cas’s gently, softly, with yearning. Hesitantly, once the feeling of surprise begins to vanish, Castiel runs the tip of his tongue against Dean’s lips, parting them, a silent question and a silent answer. They could stop, one sound or gesture and he’d step back, any sign of discomfort and he’ll step back and they’ll never mention it again. Repress the memory, burn it down. It’s a kiss without a kiss that becomes tentative and languid as familiar feelings settle inside of him, thoughts going staccato. Tongues touching, moist and slippery muscle, hands in hair and bodies close.

“That.” Coughs Dean. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.”

“It’s over then,” says Dean, voice deep and broken, syllables that are all edges. “I’ve missed you.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“Can I come in now?” he asks and smiles fondly, their foreheads still touching. 

“Yeah. Yeah. Of course.”

“Shoes off?”

“Doesn’t make much of a difference, but off, please. You can leave them next to ours.”

He does as he’s being told. His shoes are definitely dirtier than theirs and he places them next to a pair of rain boots with a bee pattern printed on them. Standing next to each other, they look like a complete picture - three pairs of shoes next to the door. It starts now, he thinks, with three pairs of shoes next to a door and a kiss: They can resume and simply be. History restarting at once with an ending mixed with a beginning.

“Had to walk Miracle after dinner, Jack insisted he had to come.”

“Miracle?”

“Our dog. Stray one we adopted a year ago more or less, sleeps in Jack’s room so you’ll see her quite soon.” 

Barefoot, his socks in his hand, he walks down the stairs following Dean. Wet footprints on the tiled floor and droplets of water still dripping from his coat. He says, “I’m making a mess.”

“I’m sorry, Cas,” whispers Dean, turning his head around to look at him. “I’m so sorry.”

“Dean-”

Castiel doesn’t manage to finish the sentence, perhaps doesn’t even have it in him. His thoughts are going staccato and he feels disconnected from his feelings, incapable to neatly sort them out and make sense of them. There are a couple of certainties that don’t seem to make the situation any easier and the moment, imagined for too long, doesn’t quite live up to his expectations. Neither worse nor better, simply different in its complexity. Trickier. Worries of a different kind. They found each other again, for the last time and having Dean at his side once more feels right, slightly inevitable. It’s this version of them, actively choosing each other all over, but the future is dark, a series of interrogatives Dean too must be aware of. 

“Cas. Cas, look at me,” says Dean, his hands cupping Cas’s cheeks once more. “Look at me.”

Castiel leans into the touch. Dean’s palm slightly sweaty and warm, like he remembers from the moment in the Empty. Callous. Surprisingly real. He feels touch starved, ready to beg for more, on his knees, hands clasped as if in prayer, his whole body screaming. To be held a little while longer and stand there after such a long time - free to be themselves, postponing the least important matters to another moment, a different one, calmer and less confused. The watch on Dean’s wrist ticks the time away, leaden circles travelling through the air.

It comes down to fear, he thinks. Everything always comes down to fear. 

“I want to see Jack,” he says urgently.

“Alright. I thought so. This way.”

“He’s fine?”

Dean nods. “Fast asleep in his room. Went to bed rather late because we were watching comedy sketches for children. One leads to another.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Lots of poo and vomit. Jack found it hilarious.” Dean pauses. “He missed you. Kept asking about you. This way.”

He follows Dean down the corridor, past the closed doors, and looks himself around, studying the surroundings, looking out for possible changes. He says, “It’s slightly different than how I remember it.”

“It is. I was thinking about moving out, but I wanted to… wait… you know? Here we are.”

Carefully, Castiel opens the ajar door and reveals Jack’s room. There are a couple of pictures hanging on one of the walls, photographs by the look of it, though the dim light that comes from the corridor is hardly sufficient to reveal their content. The room itself is a mess of books and clothes and the small desk on the right is covered with paper and pencils and small animal statues all lined up as if ready to embark on a great journey across land and sea, to the end of the world. And the dog, Miracle, on a pillow and covered with a blank. She opens her eyes lazily and looks at Castiel and Dean before closing them again, such late-night visitors completely uninteresting.

He walks in quietly, tiptoeing on the pavement and smiles as fondness washes over him. Gently, he presses a kiss on Jack’s hair and fixes the blankets.

“Good night, Jack.”

“Dad?” Jack mumbles, his voice filled with sleep.

“Yes, it is me.”

“‘m sleepy,” he slurs. 

“Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Hmmm.” Jack turns around.

He remains there for a little while longer before picking up Jack’s teddy and putting it back in its place. 

“Are you hungry?” asks Dean. “I can cook you something.”

“No, thank you.”

“Something to drink? Water? Juice? A coffee?”

“Dean, I’d really like a shower and something clean to wear.”

“You can take a bath if you want to. As for the clothes, I’ll find you something to wear.” Dean stops. “Jack started to call people buttheads in your absence. God knows where he picked that one up.”

Cas laughs loudly, his whole body shaking. “Butthead?”

“We tried to make him stop but… Listen, you’ll find out eventually and I might as well tell you myself. When you… Died. When the Empty took you, I wanted to move on for Jack’s sake. Saving you was a stretch and with everything that happened- Hell, even when I did go into the Empty it didn’t feel real. It wasn’t. Not- I don’t know. Like you raising me from perdition or something. I did lose hope, Cas, thought I’d never see you again. Jack didn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“All’s well that ends well, they say. Least said, soonest mended.”

“Not really how it works.”

“Dean, we have time. We have all the time we want to talk about what you did and didn’t do. I don’t care, not now anyway. I’m just happy to be here. The rest will follow. The weight of the world doesn’t rest on your shoulders, you know. I’m not saying that it won’t take time, but it’ll be alright. Eventually.”

Down the corridor and right, headed to the bathroom. Once they enter, Dean closes the door behind them and says, “Here we are. I doubt anyone’s awake at this ungodly hour, but if you’d rather lock the door, I can knock when I’m back.”

He heads to the sink, turning the water on and washing his hands, getting rid of the mud and looking at the water run down the pipe, leaving brown streaks on the white porcelain. The reflection in the mirror is that of a stranger, dark circles under his eyes and his hair lighter than it used to be, with some grey streaks.

“If you get out of your clothes, I’ll put them through the wash.”

“Here I thought that the mud made me look irresistible,” Cas jokes. “Look at you, I’ve ruined your t-shirt.”

“I’ll get another one. It doesn’t matter.” Dean pauses and walks to the bathtub. Castiel watches him attentively as he puts the stopper in and turns on the water, letting it run for a while before adding some soap. Steam rises and dances in the air in intricate patterns and the space bears a faint smell of mint - of freshness and cleanness. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“No, thank you.”

“Then strip.”

He discards one piece of clothing after the other, starting with his trench coat and finishing with his boxer briefs - folding everything and pulling it together in a neat pile which he hands Dean.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

Castiel nods and steps into the bathtub. The water is hot and the surface ripples at such an unexpected movement. Once he gets used to the warmth, he steps inside and sits down, letting his body slide underwater. No noise and a feeling similar to floating. Out of time and space. He exhales through his nose, bubbles travelling to the surface. Relaxing, all tension finally leaving him.

“There you go,” says Dean as he locks the door behind him. In his arms, a pair of striped pyjama trousers, an old washed out t-shirt, and a grey woollen jumper. “It’s the best I could find. Hope it fits.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

“May I?” asks Dean who, without really waiting for an answer, sits in the free space behind the tub, resting his back against the tiled wall and crossing his legs. Gently, he lifts his hands, starting to wash Castiel’s hair, fingers massaging the scalp. “Wait.”

“It’s not like I’m going anywhere, Dean.”

“No, of course not. Right. I’ll just-” 

Cas watches him stand up and reach the cabinet next to the sink, going through its drawers before he comes back with a wooden comb.

“Your hair is full of mud, it’s easier to get it out like this.” He pauses and for a moment they remain there in silence as Castiel plays with the water, leaning his palm on the flat surface before tapping his fingers on it, studying the concentric circles as they expand themselves until they disappear, fading away silently.

“I won’t hurt you,” adds Dean.

Whether Dead is talking about the methodical and precise movements with which he’s combing Cas’s hair or in wider terms, Cas cannot tell. Either way, Dean’s voice sounds as vulnerable and open as it gets, perhaps the epitome of it, and he instinctively believes him.

“I know. I trust you,” he whispers back.

Dean tells him everything about Chuck, about Jack deciding to turn back into a toddler at the end of it and they agree that Jack deserves to have a childhood, a happy one. He tells Cas about Sam and Eileen too, about Sam leaving and the first excruciating couple of weeks - for the best, definitely for the best, but still hard. There’s a part-time job as a mechanic, old cars because he wouldn’t know how to touch any of the new ones, but most of the days are spent looking after Jack, taking him to kindergarten and picking him up, therapy, and AA meetings twice a week. The words come out easily, letting him in, each story and anecdote is told with great detail, recalled by memory yet as fresh as on the day they were made. Sometimes, Dean admits, he felt like screaming himself hoarse, yelling apologies until there were no more apologies left in the universe.

As they sit there, one word starts to settle between them: Home. To have been away for so long nothing but a dream or a nightmare, but coming back! To come back. And this, the possibility of a life together, the concrete example of it, of this more and want and longing he used to feel. Pieces of a puzzle falling to their right place and the whole world finally making sense - striking and unexpected realization.

“I’m losing my grace,” he whispers just as Dean finishes to tell him something about Miracle. It's the first time he says it out loud, that he admits it plainly to someone other than himself. It feels good, like a weight that's been lifted from his shoulders, the pain no longer insular. “I’m not angry about it. I’m... happy. I really am. But I’m also terrified about what will happen. I don’t know, the deep oblivion. It’ll probably take a while to settle and I have no idea what the consequences will be.”

It seems to be the most natural conclusion and he's happy about it, at peace with his destiny and his decision not to do anything to stop it. All of his friends are humans, fragile and mortal, and he'd rather not spend the rest of his days travelling the world alone. One life, the best of life, seems enough and to make the most of it seems something noble. Fulfilment and contentment. He doesn't mind not seeing the rise and fall of empires or new dawns as long as he'll get to go to sleep every night knowing to have done something worthy of his time and helping others, something enjoyable for himself.

It happened slowly, throughout the span of thirteen years, and now that he’s finally at the end of the road, the prospect of gaining his humanity assumes nightmarish qualities: the last time he was human, it was all but enjoyable. He’s not too sure about what he is scared of, perhaps the worst thing of all is that if needed he won’t be able to make any difference, having to rely on nothing which in return makes him less than useful. Perhaps he's scared about having an aching body and tired bones, about the idea of losing some of his memories or no longer having the right words to express himself. There is always a price to pay and he's not ready to do so, and would like to know what he's up against and how to diminish the inevitable pain in order to face such a challenge more positively. Above all, he doesn't want to face such scary and colossal changes on his own, no one to talk to.

"Cas, I'm here," Dean says plainly.

“Does Jack still have his powers?” he asks, changing the topic abruptly.

“Yes, but I set some rules.”

Cas laughs. “That sounds more like it.”

“Do you think he'll be angry?”

“About you?”

Cas nods. “Yes.”

“No, I don’t think so. I think… I think he’ll merely be happy to see you again.”

“Anger and happiness can coexist, Dean.”

“I ain’t a fucking psychic, Cas. Ask him if you don’t believe me.” He exhales sharply. “But I’ll tell you this, he found an old walkie-talkie in one of the rooms and on bad days, we used to talk to you. Messages to the universe to kindle hope - yours or ours I don’t know. We used to ask you to come back before and after your rescue as you call it. Months of it. It helped both of us, not gonna lie. And there must still be one of the signs somewhere.”

“Signs?”

“A piece of paper. A note, asking you to wait because we were out at the moment, but we’d be back. From school, work, doing the shopping, whatever. It has stickers on it.”

“Do you think I should have woken him up?”

“Do you think you should have woken him up?”

“I honestly don’t know. I’ve been away for a long time.”

“A year isn’t that long, Cas.”

“It is in the Empty. Dean, are you angry?”

“What?”

“About any of this.”

“Used to be. Used to wonder how you could be so selfish, mulling over your words only to find them stupid. You couldn’t possibly believe them. And you left. You left and I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop you, Cas, alright? Couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t consider you dust and ashes. Wish we’d done it sooner. What I did, earlier, it wasn’t-”

“I know.”

“It wasn’t out of pity. I’m forty-three, Cas, I know who I am and I know what I want and I don’t want to waste any time playing stupid games. You’re back and if you still feel the same way as you did last year-”

“You mean, love you?”

“That.”

“I do.”

“Me too. That is, I love you,” replies Dean with more emphasis, matter-of-factly, articulating words as if he was the one who spoke them first. He feels Dean’s hand on his naked shoulder and slowly puts his hand on it, not daring to move.

“Water’s getting cold,” he says. 

“I’m gonna get you a towel.”

When Dean turns around, walking away once again, Cas removes the stopper and lets the water travel down the drain before taking the showerhead, quickly rinsing his skin from any residual soap and then cleaning the white surface of the tub itself from any dust and mud, leaving it as spotless as he found it.

“Thank you,” he says, stepping out, bare feet into the blue bath mat. 

He towels himself dry and gets dressed.

“What?” he asks.

“It went better than last time. This year without you. Not well, but better.”

“What are you talking about, Dean?”

“When you died and came back… Since we’re being open and honest with each other… When you came back I said we needed you. But I needed you. I was hardly functioning. You were _my_ win, not ours. I should have told you. I should have told you a lot of things and never did until it was too late to say them out loud.” Dean exhales sharply and takes Cas’s hand, fingers brushing over the back. “I wish I’d told you so I’m telling you now. I wanted to- I shouldn’t have expected anything but fearlessness from you.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he replies. “I don’t- I didn’t know. I thought… Never mind that. No, I thought for years that it was all about being useful and I was fine with that, being like a spaniel and you giving me leave to follow you no matter how unworthy I was. Then Jack came and… I tried to be someone you would like for so long, but things changed.”

“I know. I’m okay with that, Cas.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Cas lifts Dean’s hand and kisses his knuckles as he closes his own around them, holding them against his lips, sighing. He says, “It’s going to be alright.”

“Then I’ll have to tell you now that we gave someone your room. Moved all your stuff into my room so if you’re willing to share.” Dean grins. “I was going to ask you years ago, but… I guess life happened. So will you? Move into my room for the time being?”

“I’d like that.” He pauses. “Dean?”

“What?”

“I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want a life with you and it can be as friends or-”

“Oh, shut up, Cas.”

Dean kisses him again, patiently and yearning, pulling him close. Tentatively at first, a great deal of hesitance painting his movements, and then with more honesty and passion, basking in the feeling of satisfaction and hunger. They had been apart for too long, longer than that excruciating year in the Empty, tracing way back - victims of small talk, both of them, something standing between them preventing them from talking freely and with complete honesty. Wool against cotton. They touch each other with care and no rush at all, each movement gentle and infinite and painted with disbelief, a dilation, anticipation of a future entirely possible, until they settle for Cas’s head is buried in the crook of Dean’s neck and Dean’s arms are around him, holding him close. Comfort, reassurance, protection, love.

“Hold me,” Cas whispers. His voice falters as he breathes in slowly and comes out as a muffled sound against Dean’s skin. “And never let me go.”

“I’m not letting you go, Cas. Never again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: violets used to represent all things good and supposedly cured all maladies/brought comfort. That's why they're particularly evocative in HAM where they're all dead - there's no comfort or chance thereof. Also Orsino in TN and the evil Queen in CYM.


End file.
